


Sympathetic

by GRBookworm1818



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cognitive Science, Gen, Implied Anxiety, could be read as platonic or pre-slash, could have a part two, if you're into that, me relating to Schofield far too much??? never, toms a nurse in training because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29832609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GRBookworm1818/pseuds/GRBookworm1818
Summary: Have I updated the fan fiction I'm already working on? No. Instead, have this unrelated ficlet that is (unfortunately) based on a true story. There's brief mention of someone reacting negatively to a sudden stimulus, if that's going to bother anyone.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Kudos: 2





	Sympathetic

**Author's Note:**

> Have I updated the fan fiction I'm already working on? No. Instead, have this unrelated ficlet that is (unfortunately) based on a true story. There's brief mention of someone reacting negatively to a sudden stimulus, if that's going to bother anyone.

Tom is sitting at the end of the middle row, closest to the wall (and to an _outlet_ ), feeling proud of himself. His class is due to start in – Tom checks the clock – fifteen minutes, and maybe he’s a little _early_ , but so what? If he wants to get the best seat and, hopefully, make a good impression on the professor, he has to beat the rush – and he has! If this class has an attendance grade, Tom will fucking _crush_ it, no problem.

He’s so busy congratulating himself for being early to the class that he isn't aware of someone else arriving until he sees a tall blond boy settling into a seat ahead of him. It’s a seat right next to the aisle – a curious choice for someone arriving early, but maybe he wants to be able to leave quickly? Whatever, it’s not his business.

At least, it’s not his business until the blond - more of a dirty blond on closer inspection, not that it matters - glances back toward him and gives him a small, nervous smile. Maybe Tom is reading too much into it, but the smile the boy gives him looks like the kind of smile that doesn’t expect reciprocation. Even more than that: Tom is _absolutely_ projecting by now, but the boy looks like he expects to be told to stop smiling. Tom has had that look before. And, because Tom has been staring at him like a complete idiot while psychoanalyzing his facial expression instead of, oh, maybe _smiling back_ , the boy’s smile quickly fades and he turns away.

_Shit_.

Tom curses himself and, before he can think of a better idea, blurts out, “Sorry!”

He curses himself even more when the boy jumps and stiffens in his seat. After a long, long time, during which Tom contemplates every mistake he has ever made in his journey to the present moment, the boy turns slightly in his seat and hesitantly glances at Tom. He points at himself with his eyebrows raised, his eyes glancing around the otherwise empty room.

Tom nods, a little frantically. “Yeah, you,” he says quickly. “I – sorry about, uh, just blanking out back there. That – it’s a whole thing. Long day.” The boy blinks a few times, still looking uncertain.

“I – that’s okay,” he says quietly. “No harm done.”

“I’m Tom,” Tom continues, feeling strangely bold. “Tom Blake. I’m a freshman.”

“Will Schofield,” says the boy. “Um – I’m a sophomore, a transfer.”

Tom nods. “Where’d you transfer from?”

“Thiepval University,” says the boy. The look on his face and his tone of voice convince Tom not to ask further questions about Thiepval.

“What’s your major?” he asks instead.

Will smiles again, but it’s a different kind of smile this time – crooked and wry. “Fresh out of orientation, I see,” he says. “Right now I’m torn between history and linguistics. You know, very profitable fields. How about you?”

“Nursing,” Tom says. “And maybe something with education, too.” He waits almost unconsciously for Will to react the way others have – frown, smirk, say _Isn’t that a girl’s job_ or _Why not a doctor_. But Will simply nods.

“That’s impressive,” he says. “I couldn’t do that – haven’t the stomach for it.”

Is Tom preening? He might be, a little bit. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s – both my parents were nurses, you know.”

Will nods again. “You – aren’t there, uh, different sorts of nurses?” he asks. “You know which, um, which type you’d like to be? Sorry if that’s a dumb question.”

“No, ’s not dumb,” Tom says quickly. He’s vaguely aware of other students filing in and choosing their own seats, adding their voices to the quiet but growing noise in the classroom. “I – pediatrics, maybe? Working with kids? Could be fun.” He shrugs. “But that’s – I’m not sure yet.”

Will nods. “You’ve got time,” he says. For a moment the two smile at each other, and Tom wonders how to casually ask someone to be his friend, like he’s back in fucking primary school – and then his phone buzzes like an angry bee, moving across the table with the force of it. “Fucksake,” Tom mutters, grabbing at it. He checks it – apparently Cooke got wise that he muted the group chat, and is now spamming him on direct messaging – and turns the bloody thing off.

When he looks back up, Will has turned away and seems to be scribbling in a notebook. Tom sighs inwardly. So much for that. Maybe he can ask for Will’s contact info after class.

When there is five minutes before class begins, and the students’ whispering has risen into a dull roar, the door opens and a tall, severe-looking man strides in with military precision. He has a neatly trimmed moustache and a scar over his left eye. The class instantly quiets at the sight of him. This, Tom thinks, must be the professor.

“Good afternoon,” the man says briskly. “My name is Professor Mackenzie. You may address me as such or as Doctor Mackenzie.” He walks up to the lectern and turns to face the rest of the classroom. “If you are sitting here,” he says, “then presumably you wish to learn about cognitive science. I advise anyone not sharing this sentiment to leave, so as not to waste the time of myself or your fellow students.” He waits. Nobody moves or makes a single sound. “Good,” Mackenzie finally says. “Let’s begin.”

He starts the presentation and begins speaking in a steady, almost conversational tone of voice. As he speaks, he turns from the lectern and begins walking back and forth through the aisle of the classroom. It takes Tom a moment to realize the slides Mackenzie is showing have no text on them, only MRI scans and diagrams; he curses to himself and begins scribbling down the professor’s words, resolving to ask a classmate for their notes.

“There are, of course, two branches of the autonomic subdivision of the nervous system,” Mackenzie is saying, when he suddenly turns and _SLAMS_ his fist onto the nearest table with a terrific crash. It startles everyone, but Will, who happens to be sitting at the end of the table – right next to Mackenzie – gets it the worst: he flinches violently like he’s been electrocuted and curls his arms over his head, huddling in on himself.

There’s a pause, during which everyone seems to be holding their breath.

“Sympathetic nervous system,” Mackenzie says, carefully enunciating each syllable. He straightens up, still standing next to Will, and looks out over the rest of the class like a conqueror surveying his domain. All eyes are on him – except, Tom notices, Will has not moved from his defensive position.

“Your heartrate increases,” Mackenzie continues, “you start breathing more deeply, your body begins releasing adrenaline. All in preparation to face what your nervous system perceives as an imminent _threat_.” He takes a few slow steps backward and turns back to the lectern.

“And now,” he says, in a softer voice, “you have the parasympathetic nervous system. As your brain comprehends that there is no such threat, that you are _safe_ , your heartrate decreases. You begin breathing more normally and your body stops producing adrenaline in such great quantities. In essence, you calm down.”

His eyes flick to Will. Tom follows his gaze and sees that Will is still huddled up, his shoulders shaking slightly.

Mackenzie is silent for a moment, looking at Will with an expression Tom cannot parse. Then he straightens up, his face growing distant once more, and begins talking about the various types of brain scans. He does not go near Will's seat again.

At least, that’s what he starts out talking about; Tom tunes him out about five minutes in, because his eyes are drawn again and again to Will. His shoulders have stopped shaking so violently, but Tom can see that his head is bowed and he is still curled in on himself, as if in anticipation of a blow. Something, Tom thinks, isn’t quite right.

When Mackenzie finally dismisses the class, Tom fights his age-old instinct to bolt out the door. Instead he keeps his eyes on Will as the latter silently packs up and leaves. He tries to pace himself so that he just happens to be leaving at the same time as Will, but is brought up short when he sees Mackenzie pad down the aisle towards the other student. Tom can’t hear their conversation, but he can see the way Will shakes his head and flinches away from Mackenzie when the latter reaches out as if to clasp his shoulder. That sets off another little alarm bell in Tom’s head.

Finally, he sees Will slinging on his backpack; he follows suit, wincing at the weight of the books and folders, and falls into step just behind the other. As they pass through the doorway – first Will, then Tom following – Tom glances up, as casually as he can, at the other boy’s face.

Will’s face is pale and drawn tight like the skin of a drum, with his mouth pressed in a bloodless line and a strangely unfocused look in his eyes. Tom isn’t (yet) an expert, by any means, but it doesn’t take an expert to see that something is wrong.

The first few steps are silent, before Tom takes a breath and speaks up.

“Fucking _mental_ , that was,” he says casually. “And on the first day? Like, if you’re gonna scare the whole class, do it with a pop quiz or some shit, yeah?”

He hears Will take a shuddering breath. “Y-Yeah,” he says thickly. “Mental.”

Tom shakes his head dramatically. “Hope he’s worth it,” he says. “You, uh – you wanna get something to eat, bitch about it?”

There’s a pause.

“Sorry,” Will replies. “I – I can’t. Got, uh, somewhere to be.” He stops walking, and Tom stops with him. Will’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes are rimmed with red. He doesn’t make eye contact with Tom.

Tom blinks. “Um,” he says, “uh – are you alright? You – no offense, you seem a little, um – that, it really was shitty what Mackenzie did, you know? There are better ways to make a point than jumpscaring the whole class.”

For some reason, Will chuckles a little, though the sound is wet. “It – it was shitty,” he says. “Um. Scared the shit out of me, if that wasn’t bloody obvious already. But, um, I’m alright. Thanks. Just need to – to calm down.”

His hands are wrapped around each other in a white-knuckled grip.

“Alright,” Tom says, resisting the urge to pat Will on the shoulder or maybe wrap him in a blanket. “Uh – see you next class?”

Will swallows hard, still looking down. “M-Maybe,” he mutters. “Um. Thanks again, Tom.” Then he turns around and begins walking back the way they had come.

Tom watches him go for a moment before continuing on by himself.

He _really_ should have gotten Will’s phone number earlier.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I have SECTIONS written out of the next chapter of "i know my way is rough and steep," it's just a matter of tying them together. Thanks for your patience, and have a good day!


End file.
